


Remedy

by deathmarkedlove_archivist



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-29
Updated: 2007-01-29
Packaged: 2019-05-09 03:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14708592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathmarkedlove_archivist/pseuds/deathmarkedlove_archivist
Summary: Buffy visits Spike to make amends, post-Dead Things. PG-13





	Remedy

**Author's Note:**

> RATING: PG13, for language and implied...stuff.
> 
> SPOILERS: 6x13, Dead Things
> 
> CATEGORY: BtVS; Buffy/Spike; Angst
> 
> SUMMARY: Buffy visits Spike to make amends, post-Dead Things.
> 
> FEEDBACK: Uh, sure. Unless it's bad; my ego is fragile.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Not mine, nuh uh, no way, never will be.
> 
> NOTES: I'm one of those kooky people who loved Dead Things, so I don't really have harsh feelings towards either Buffy or Spike. However, the pitiable romantic in me half-wishes she would like, go lick his wounds.

The few candles that are lit are not quite bright enough for her to fully see what she has done to him. Also, he keeps turning his head away, while smiling awkwardly, not quite as though he were embarrassed by the wounds she's inflicted, but, rather, as though he has truly forgiven and forgotten.

She doesn't understand.

"I, um, brought some stuff...some, uh, bandages and aspirin and I'm...not...sure if painkillers work on vampires, but I thought I'd bring some anyways, even though they're the cheap Wal-Mart kind, but they usually work for me, so I...just...thought..."

He doesn't say anything, doesn't even look at her, really; he just sits himself on the cement tomb in the middle of his home, his legs swinging off the edge and his head bowed downwards, chin almost resting on his chest.

 _Whoa. Deja vue_ , she thinks, taking small, calculated steps until she's standing in front of him; then, sitting next to him, facing him, pulling on his arm so he'll turn to her.

He still doesn't make any attempts to acknowledge her, so she draws her own legs onto the sepulcher and crosses them, opening and reaching into the metal, Scooby Doo, lunchbox that stores her first aid supplies. An old dishrag she grabbed on the way out the door lies on top of the bandages and tape; she has no water to wet it with, so she spits on it, shrugging when he gives her a pointed look, then drags it lightly across his swollen right eye, and it reminds her, strangely, of a mother wiping dirt off her child's face on the way to church. She moves to his split lip and he flinches, suddenly, so she pulls the cloth away and goes to wet it again, but it's already stained red.

"Do you...like, have some water...or something I could use...an old...clean shirt or--"

"It's only blood," he states in that thick voice that it usually reserved for playtime. His tongue darts out quickly and crawls slowly over the busted lip, lapping at the cherry-red liquid that trickles from the skin her fist and his teeth tore. And, god help her, she's licking her lips, too -- she knows, because he's staring.

"Oh, god...I'm so sorry," she murmurs, as though she is seeing, for the first time, what she has done (and is capable of being).

He turns away from her again, not wanting to see the pain that's always manifested in her eyes, except this time, because of him, for her conscience. A quick nod towards the floor dismisses her concern. _It's okay, now_ , his tense hands decree, gripping the edge of the slab; _Worry is wasteful!_ swaying legs shout with every _thump_ of his boot against cement.

But all she sees is a man who doesn't truly believe her, who doesn't recognize and dwell on the masses of pain she has caused him, who loves her even though he shouldn't. Layers upon layers of anger and confusion and fear and revulsion she has wrenched out from inside herself and poured into him with her tiny hands and tongue, filling him so he wouldn't be empty, so she would. And it's so wrong; **christ** , she's been so terrible.

She doesn't understand. How he can brush these horrible things aside, the hundreds of words he's spat at her and the punches he's caught in return -- how can he ignore these things, love her still, and want to be loved? He's a freaking masochist. And jesus **fucking** christ, she still wants him so bad it aches.

"Turn," she says, finally, and he does. Slowly she begins to undo the cold, shiny fastenings of his black, button-down with her shaky fingers. He lifts his arms and she carefully peels the paisley-patterned shirt off, not bothering to catch it as she watches it slip to the floor and puddle below his bare feet.

Moments later she looks up to see what else she has slashed and sliced. She runs her still unsteady fingers over the black and blue marks that cover his chest and collarbone.

"Jus' bruises -- they don't even hurt, really," he states at the same time her wandering hand reaches a cracked rib, causing him to flinch violently. Her hand jerks away automatically, and she grabs it with the other, laying them both, entwined together, in her lap.

"I should wrap it. It'll, uh, heal faster." She forces herself to untangle her limbs and reach for the roll of white binding tape.

"Doesn't matter, I'll be good as new before we know it," he says, pushing her hands away. "Jus' need a good day's rest, that's all." He pauses and stands, not letting himself identify the hurt currently involved in such a trivial task. Then: "Really."

 _Fuck, I'm in too deep_ , are the last words that enter her thoughts before she lets the tears she's been frantically holding back fall. "Why are you acting like this?" She chokes out between quiet sobs. _Like what_? ask the tightly coiled muscles of his back; he refuses to face her. "Like none of this bothers you..."

"I could ‘a stopped you."

She wants to ask why he didn't, but she doesn't, because she knows why and it has nothing to do with the wounds she carved -- still carves -- into him.

"It's okay to be angry with me. Christ, Spike, you should be wanting to rip my throat out right about now..." _because you're an evil, disgusting thing; because one of us is going to die someday, so we might as well get on with it; because I'm bad and wrong and I'm drowning and, fuck it, fuck everything..._

"See, that's where you get confused, Buffy, because I will **never** stop loving you. You could shove a bleedin' stake through my heart and I'd just die wanting you."

He turns to find her standing behind him, a small hand reaching up as though she was going to stroke his back. Instead, she places her hand on his chest, over the place where his heart would beat if it could. _I'm sorry. You believe me...right?_

"I didn't mean to--"

"I know."

"--It's just..."

"I know."

He is motionless for the moment, so she holds him in place with her arms around his waist and her head on his torso, where her hand had been. A moment later he wraps an arm around a shoulder, letting the other cradle her head, his fingers tying knots in her hair. He feels her hot tears running down his body, catching in her shirt pressed tightly against his gut.

She pulls away, sniffling like a little girl. "I want to fix you."

He lets her wrap his broken rib this time, and he watches as she winds the itchy cloth around and around before taping the stray end to his side.

"There. Right as rain...if, uh, rain is right. I never quite understood that one..." A deep chuckle escapes him and she smiles in return. Then the silence comes; the silence they would normally fill with harsh words and minor acts of violence. "You should get some rest. And it's late and Tara's waiting for me at the house, so I shou--"

He cuts her off with his mouth; his lip is still swollen and bloody so she kisses him back cautiously, ignoring the not-so-loud voice that tells her she shouldn't be kissing him this way, this tenderly.

She has dreams about kissing him like his -- him crawling naked into her bed, speckling her shoulders and neck with his mouth and fingers until she can't stand it anymore and she has to touch him in return...embracing him like a true lover, holding him close, so close, letting him go slow, so slow, so long. She awakes those nights cold and alone and hurting inside and she wipes her eyes, blaming him for making her feel this way.

But right now she doesn't blame him for the pain. She is the maker and he just gets confused. And she can't quite convince herself she's the victim, not like this, with his soft lips, barely touching yet making her feel more connected then ever before, his fingers, dancing along her waist, her hands gripping his arms, threading through his hair, treading over his neck, down to the bit of pelvic bone that his low-rise jeans do not cover, then up again, around, wanting more all on their own, with minds of their own, and their hands may be busy but their lips are still barely touching, hardly moving, just...tasting.

Then he pulls away and she leans into him with a pathetic whimper, desperate for more contact. Always desperate for more, getting more, getting it all and giving nothing in return, so it's never complete.

She looks up to find him staring at her with his broken eyes and a content smile. "Goodnight, Buffy."

She tilts her head up, placing quick kisses on the discolored parts of his face and neck and shoulder. "Better?" He nods and she smiles. "'Night, Spike."

 _Thank you_ , she hears him say on her way out, back into the dark blue world outside his candle-lit crypt. I _'ll see you tomorrow_ , she whispers as the wooden door closes behind her.

THE END

February 10, 2002


End file.
